[141] Screed City

[141]

05/21/2022 Saturday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Farmers Market Week Two:

Bloody Christ, 90F almost all day. Two days ago it got so cold that I had to turn the heater back on. This shit really cramps one’s style as the bridesmaids say. Annoying as shit. At least the long johns came off. I would prefer about 10 weeks of 72 F weather. Then a month of the hot stuff for swimming or whatever. And back to 72 F for about 10 more weeks. Then Winter can do it's thing. Butwhatever. Nothing we can do about that now.

This morning was easier than last Saturday. I got up a 5a. Made my rounds. Drank some coffee. Listened to the comedy politics thing that I like to listen to on Saturday. Around six I started the oven. 350 F for preheat. I made Cubby Bubbys and Breakfast Bubbys this time. I changed the recipe for the Cubby Bubby though. Instead of using cabbage, I put a slice of American cheese inside. And instead of cooking the onions in the ground beef, I caramelized them. I mean, I am thisclose to perfecting these fuckers. I just need a slightly tangy/sweet sauce to paint on the dough before I make them into rolls. I think I can pull it off. The trick is to get catch the dough at the right time during the fermentation or whatever, the rising, the proofing. There is a point when the dough is very resilient and will glue itself back together perfectly. But if I miss that point the dough gets really wimpy. And at that point in the wimp it becomes a crapshoot about whether they will remain closed. Also, I learned that if I bake them for 15 minutes at 450 F, take them out of the oven, flip them over, then all the goods don't try to get out. And then when I cool them, I keep them face down until they are cold. Wrap them in tinfoil. And that is that. They won't leak out. See? I am still learning. This is a marathon, not a sprint. Unlike sex. You know? Tantric baking.

I filled the one chafing dish with the Breakfast Bubbys that I had thawed out over night. Which, I fucking forgot to take out of the freezer last night, but remembered last minute. Luckily I was heading up to bed at 9p, so it wasn't a tragedy. Although I am starting to wonder about that. They spend about two hours being heated before the market even opens. I really do wonder if I could get away with just placing them in the chafing dish and on top of boiled water with the Strerno going, if that would do the trick. The only way to find out though would be to experiment. And that could be a total disaster if it didn't work. I mean, I could do it with the lunch ones. Nobody buys those until around 11a anyway. That would be nearly four hours of heating in the chafing dish. I will think about it. It would save me about 20 minutes of time and a bunch of gas from the stove. Which, I don't know if you have noticed but the gas prices these days. Don't get me started. I blame Dejoy. Impeach that beach.

At around 630a I put the Breakfast Bubbys in the oven. It was preheated now. Then I transferred the thawed Cubby Bubbys to the other chafing dish. Put the lid on. Waited. Started boiling water. Both in the electric kettle and the stovetop kettle. At some point I cooked a Usual with Cheese in the electric oven. I learned this from Scott. He microwaves the things for a couple minutes and cuts them in half and toasts them. It really does a number on them. I kind of want to bring the electric oven to the Farmers Market and ask people if they want the things toasted. That would be kind of funny. People love to get things toasted. I have no idea how I would electrify the thing, but that would be possible. I think.

Anyway. The Breakfast Bubbys got preheated. I poured the boiling water into the bottom of the chafing dish. Took the things out of the oven. Put the chafing dish into the other part of the chafing dish. The bottom part. Lit some old half-used Sternos. Put them under the thing. Then I put the Cubby Bubbys in the oven. Set a timer for 20 minutes and went upstairs to take a shower. The shower was nice. Quick. I put my Cubby Bubby shirt on. My nice pair of black pants. Went downstairs and took some socks out of the dryer. Put them on. My boots. I tied my white apron folded in half around my waist and I was ready for work. I turned the kettle back on to get it back to boiling. Went through my box of incidentals. Making sure I had everything. The Publisher had traded me $60 dollars in ones for $60 dollars in twenties the other day. From Grit's egg fund. She didn't ask me if I had an account with them. Fucking Key Bank. I told that story to two of the other vendors today. About how Key Bank wouldn't exchange my $20's. They were as incredulous as I was. Fuck banks. They can suck a big fat fatty.

I mean, a few minutes went by. The water was boiling. The Cubby Bubbys had a minute left. I poured the boiling water into the bottom of the chafing dish. I took the chafing dish out of the oven. Put it on top of the water that had been boiling that was now on the bottom of the chafing dish. You see what I am dealing with here? The thing has three parts, but the parts are all one thing. I feel like a teenager writing a essay. I don't have the words to describe what I want to write, but I also don't have the desire to make my writing clear. It's not so much laziness as it is just contempt for the English language. Why can't things be less boring? Mom! It's not my fault the world drools. Mom! Why don't you write my essay if you have such smart ideas, Mom!

At this point I was basically ready to go. It was early though. I had time. Time to do what? I don't know. But it is always good to give yourself time before embarking on an endeavor. I mean, last week I forgot the fucking tent. The one thing that defines a Boother. I would not make that mistake again. I mean, I loaded the box of incidentals into the trunk of Junior Mint. Then the bag of soft goods. The garbage can. The three folding tables. I shut the thing. I opened all four doors. The sandwich board was still in the car. In front of the back seat. On it's side. I fed the idiot goats. Got attacked by bugs when I did this. They live on a mound of shits. Their entire life is just shitting and eating and bugs. Oh, and whining. And being idiots. I went back inside. Washed my hands. I mean, I am good about that. I know that I am running a food business. This one thing is very important. And luckily I spent enough years in the service industry that this comes as a sort of muscle memory. I mean, when the Publisher came over to exchange the cash and the GPS thing, which I used to map the running race, I mean, maybe I will talk about this later, we'll see, so don't get your hopes up, but when she came inside the Cubby Bubbys were cooling on the Dining Room table. I won't lie, I was freaking out a bit. Standing there having a conversation while hovering over the things. I should have insisted that we go outside, but I didn't. I mean, it's like she was poking them and saying "Ooh, spongey!" But still. It is one thing with these things when the come hot out of the oven. They would burn the dick off a donkey, but when they get cooled they are bacteria traps. I mean, you are supposed to immediately refrigerate anything that you are trying to keep safe, but with baking goods you have to wait until they cool. The steam is a menace. And that goes double when you are about to freeze them. You can't follow the original kitchen rules. You have to adjust. And by adjusting I mean, you have to keep your Publisher's grimy little meat hooks off the merchandise. I mean, she has a farm. Who knows what kind of Pig Pen farm dust was shedding off of her at that moment? I am not saying I am an cleaner, in that sort of way. I just mentioned the idiot goats. But at the moment I had sterilized the house. I mean, kind of. Enough for my specific purposes. I mean, it's not like you could build microchips inside or whatever. But you could cool Cubby Bubbys. Which is kind of close to building microchips, I guess. Microchips of delicious flavor for your taste buds.

I don't know. At around 7a I started moving the rest of the stuff out to the car. Junior Mint. The sign that is on a spring that says "FOOD" that I connect to a thing of fishing line that I control with my foot. I mean, Joe S would be proud about this invention. It really tricks people. Maybe even Steve C would be proud too. How simple it is and how effective it is. All the best tricks in the trade are the simplest. I mean, I put the chafing dishes in the back seat. After blowing the Sterno cans out and leaving them behind on the counter. For Ron. Later Ron. There was something missing though. I knew it. I couldn't figure it out. Then I got into the driver's seat and was about to start the car when it occurred to me. The penguin. The paper town dispenser that was a penguin. That Tom F gave me all those years ago.

Oh, to go back to the Usual with Cheese and eating it. There was a point to me mentioning that. I had bought a display case for the Cubby Bubbys. The sacrificial one that I cut in half so people can look at. They just get so confused. And they should be confused. There is no explanation to what I am selling. Aside from the things being baked and what kind of stuff they have on the inside. I mean, I give people shit for not being adventurous enough to come to my booth, but the reality is I am not doing a very good job inviting them in. I mean, I might as well be selling them sushi for the first time. "Fresh fish? Uncooked? Fuck that bullshit." I mean, and I am also basically serving a Vermont-style dish, so that is saying something that people are suspect. But my point. I thawed a Usual with Cheese the other day to test out the display case. And I had thought it was a Veggie Bubby or what was originally called a Publisher, but then the Publisher got ground beef added to it, so the name changed, but those are old facts, I mean, my point is that I didn't expect to be cutting into a Usual with Cheese. So was surprised about it. Then I had a very intense moment thinking last year I sold a bunch of Veggie Bubbys that were actually filled with ground beef. But then I took the foil out of the garbage and looked at it. It was clearly marked "UC," Usual with Cheese. And I calmed down. But still, I did not want to waste that sort of high quality yummer. I mean, had it been just a mushroom and swiss Bubby I could have easily thrown the thing on top of the compost pile. But a Usual with Cheese? Oh, hell no! As Tim Murphy would say.

All that is to say. Sorry, that is a joke. "All that is to say," is the ASAP of story telling. It sucks and is aggressive and lazy and infers that your audience is captive because you are entertaining when really you are just telling a winding and boring story that needs to cut to the chase as the bridesmaids say, I mean, all that is to say, I am trying to learn from the last Farmers Market thing. It is just so hard to get the fuck out of the door! There are just so many god damn details! I forgot the penguin, but then I remembered it. I mean, isn't that insane that it took me so long just to say that? On the other hand, the few moments I had the front door propped open because it was actually nice outside even though the heat was a-commin'. I mean, suddenly there was three fucking mosquitoes in the house. Three! I mean, I will be up all night now. They will find me. They will bite me. I will itch and wake up. Then they will fly around my ears making their high pitched wing noises and that will just compound my frustration. Fuck the right wing! Fuck them to hell! Fuck Dejoy and everything those assholes stand for. There is no tick season anymore. I just learned this today. It is ticks, all fucking year long. Even when the temp drops down to well below freezing. Those fucking assholes are waiting for you on every limb, every tree branch or leaf or whatever. And they all have Lyme disease. Every single one of them. And when you catch Lyme disease you then catch Lupus and we all become sloths and before you know it, the coyotes will be eating you up when you go to leave your house.

Speaking of which. In the canyon I nearly ran over a coyote. It was kind of out of nowhere. I mean, of course, I nearly ran it over, but it really came out of nowhere. Like it was rock cliffs on both sides. There was no reason to even think a coyote would be there. And not only that but it looked like a wolf. But it wasn't a wolf. It was smaller than that. And reddish. I mean, I learned later there are hybrid wolf/coyotes around here that they call Why?Oats. Coylfs. I mean, they have Coy-dogs out West. But I have never heard of a Whyote. Or a Coylf. I mean, you learn something new everyday, right?

I got to Waitsfield at 730a. Parked the car and started unloading. The cutting board dude, the Putin of Gluten as he is known from the mailing list of Donkey [italics] because he has a gluten allergy. I mean, he is supposed to give me his bread recipe for a GF Cubby Bubby, but he has yet to produce. He was half set up. And the Boother to my left was a dog collar gal. I mean, dog collars! CBD oils one week, dog collars the next. It is wild ride. A wild ride! I unloaded Junior Mint. Lit the Sterno under the chafing dishes. Fresh ones. Ones that I bought recently that weren't the same as the other ones I was using. Mostly because Professor Curly is too busy having a movie career and doesn't have the time to do my Amazon shopping for me. I mean, for shame! My Instagram is also not functioning at the moment either. I can't catch a break. Against all odds. Woe is me. I mean, I had to go outside the Amazon zone to get this stuff. And frankly, it was cheaper. Which, I mean, be careful with cheap shit, man. The hidden cost. The hidden cost. But what do you do? Corporate America is so ubiquitous. So fucking toxic. I mean, I don't even know what I mean, but I lit the new Sternos. And they seemed fine. I drove Junior Mint to the parking spot that is over by the Shaw's. The yoga studio behind my booth has classes at 8a which is the reason I had to get there before then. They get pissed and complain every week. And they should. I guess. Parking is an issue. Especially if you are running a business. Even if that business is supposed make you not care about things like parking. It is an irony, wrapped in a reality, wrapped in a baby pose. Tada! As PegLeg would say.

Remember that? When Professor Curly went to yoga with Phyliss and PegLeg in Wyoming and my mom was so flexible that she yelled out "Tada!" while doing the baby maneuver? That was a wild one.

Anyway. I moved the car over to the spot by the Shaw's. I thought about getting gas. My gaslight was on. I mean, I am a straight White male, isn't my gaslight always on? Ba-dum! [snare noise. cymbal crash.] I mean, I didn't get gas. I parked. The Putin of Gluten was finishing changing his back right tire. On his truck. The tie-dyed dude with dreadlocks that makes t-shirts was standing next to him. I heard there conversation as I did a Vermont turn-around to park in front of the tie-dyed dudes van. He was lamenting the fact that he should have shown up early to help. I parked and got out. I said: "Shit! I wish I would have gotten here earlier, I could have helped!" They both thought I was a hilarious dude. Because I was. The spare tire on his truck was low. I pointed over to the gas station and said "They got a pump over there. Free even. In fact, the last time I checked my spare tire I filled it up over there." The Putin of Gluten said "What the hell? You maniac! You make sure your spare tire is filled up? What are you like Government spook? Jack Reacher over here. That is insane. Who checks the tire pressure on their spare tire?" I mean, check the tire pressure on your spare. There is nothing worse than having a flat tire and then replacing it with another flat tire. It takes two seconds to do. And you only have to do it twice a year. You will thank me. And, just to let you know, you have been successfully MANSPLAINED. But it is good advice. Take it.

I walked back to the Farmers Market. Started setting up. I saw naked boob. I mean, these things are crazy. Every time the weather gets hot. Combined with the women wearing "Nice Outfits," I mean, it is great. Free the nipple! We need to de-stigmatize women's bodies. Everyone’s bodies. Why can a dude just walk around with his shirt off like nothing doing and then the second a woman pops a tit out to feed a baby, AGAPE. I mean, Vermont is actually good about this. Especially during the Farmers Market. I mean, remember last year when I say a naked vagina? I mean, it is only shocking when it is hidden and then it gets exposed. I mean, we are all just working here. I mean, on the other hand, if I saw a naked dick when Boothing I would report on that too. I mean, I saw a naked dick after the PS/NY reading and I reported on that. So don't think I am only seeing naked women or whatever. Naked female bodies as it were. I mean, I don't mean to put myself into a hole here about how to identify your gender or sex or whatever. I am just saying that I see what I see. Sometimes it is a naked dick, sometimes it is a naked vagina, sometimes, like today, it is a naked boob. I say, let it all hang out! Free the genitals! Bodies are bodies, they should be celebrated and exposed. DE-STIGMATIZE ANATOMY. I mean, I was naked all day every day until I had to go to school. Where they taught me shame. I still haven't recovered. Fuck those assholes. I mean, but I did see a naked boob and that was exciting.

I set my booth up. Doing a great job. I am getting better at it. I need a new banner. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. I really think I need to get a LED neon sign. I should electronic mail David about that. It would be a game changer. But there is time. For now I should get a new sign made. The one I have is confusing and mentions sweet treats made by Grit. Which, she is more than welcome to have her cookies at my booth if she wants, but she is about to be 10 and I don't think she has much interest in doing that. Considering she is about to go to Summer Camp for two months. Although, I do wonder if they want to sell cookies to raise money for the thing. I would be into that. I mean, the Breakfast Bubby sold very well today. The Cubby Bubby too. I even sold a bottle of hot sauce. I mean, I made $132 dollars altogether. Not exactly raking it in. However, I had multiple repeat buyers from just last week alone. And the display case was kind of genius. People would get interested in what I was selling and I would take the clear glass lid off of the sacrificial Cubby Bubby and a nice smell would waft into the air. Hitting them in the short and tickly's. I mean, next week is a holiday. The tourist season. If there is a tourist season, why can't we shoot them? That is a t-shirt slogan from growing up. Ha-ha. Meanwhile creating the most toxic town in the West. That once depended on tourism to thrive. That is now just a fart smell on the map. And it is those damn illegals taking our jobs. I mean, it is not funny because it is stupid. Ostrich politics. Butwhatever. Worland can suck a big fat fatty. When the town one day it is just fifteen people complaining about how they can only eat tumble weeds because the Mexicans took all the jobs to Mexico, I will cry a bitter tear for them. I mean, whatever. They will be fine. American Fascism is actually good for local business. But what they don't understand is that only means that not giving all of your tax dollars to Corporations is what is driving the good economy, locally, I mean, the way the have it set up, it is going to take decades to undo the damage their xenophobia has created. By then, they will be replaced, not because of some sinister plot from the Blacks and Jews and Dems, but because they were idiots that thought that monopolies and fascism were good for business. I mean. Whatever. This isn't politics because it is about business, right?

Hence the Farmers Market. But also, hence the rub. I mean, you can't get a good following at a Farmers Market without playing to the base. And the base, right now, for me is totally Vermont-style. But I will get them yet. I mean, the main competition for me is this horrible Vermont-style Mexican food that is bland as a wet roll of toilet paper. But damn it! They have long lines. And, I won't lie, it is good for me when they sell out. Because when they run out of food that means people are suddenly open to what I am slinging. I mean, today, as fucking hot as it was, I mean, normally, the Putin of Gluten has a tent wall between himself and the Vermont-style Mexican joint. I mean, I can't see their business. But today, in order to get a nice breeze blowing, the Putin of Gluten took it down. The wall. And all afternoon. I mean that literally, after noon. Long lines for this milquetoast crap. I mean, I told you about the tamale I ate the first time I ever came to the Waitsfield Market. For learning purposes. For research. I mean, it was Luke-warm garbage. Cold canned un-flavored black beans and canned corn. It was like eating boredom while sitting in front of a South facing window at noon. I mean, I kind of wanted my money back it was so bland. And the sauce they gave me to go with the thing was like a tomatillo marinated in snot. Just a little bit of salt and mostly just stick to your teeth goo. But bitter. I mean, and people lining up for this slop? I mean, this is why I resist the temptation to give the people what they want. Because what they want is day old panties seasoned with a two mile hike next to the river. I mean, it is not unpleasant to have a nice lick about it or whatever, but you will never get the zest of week long trek up El Capitan, every hand hold could be your last, your fingers shaking and terrified, the sweat dripping down your undies. Bivouacking until dawn. Reading ripped apart novels while dangling 1,000 feet above the ground. Never knowing if you will see tomorrow. I mean, those are the kinds of panties I am offering. And if the people of Vermont can't see that, don't want to taste that, who am I to judge? I mean, I will give them the good stuff. The exceptional stuff. And when they come around they will thank me for it.

I mean, I do have all these repeat costumers already. And I do think the new recipe for the Cubby Bubby is kind of exceptional. I just need to figure out the last little flavor that is missing. I mean, you'll see. All of you. You think you can hold me down. Oh, no! Against all odds. Woe betide. I mean, it really doesn't help that I am this glaring middle aged White dude. Next to a slightly less middle aged glaring White dude. Next to a woman selling dog collars. I mean, oh! The lady with the dog collars, her husband does a radio show on Mad River Radio every Wednesday. I got my ins again! I am going to figure this out. I will get my radio hour. Screed City Radio is coming back. I just know it!

I mean, after a four hour insanely hot day I started to pack up my booth. It took a very long time. Things were moving slowly. I was moving slowly. My water bottle went from being annoyingly warm to undrinkable. I was thirsty and partially annoyed with Vermont. Butwhatever. Like sex, this is a marathon, not a sprint. Oh, right, the opposite. Tantric Boothing. I mean, I broke everything down. About halfway through, Abbie came around. She wanted to talk to me about my "Duties." I said "Oh, yeah, I know. I got those signs over there to take to the thing." She said "Yeah, you should do it by 1:15 if you can." I said "Yeah, okay, no problem. I was going to do it last week, but the signs weren't there." She said "Yeah, they weren't." I mean, I walked over to the signs and the cones I was supposed to break down. I took the cones and stacked them on each other. I tooted through them "Doot-de doo! Presenting!" Abbie was right behind me. I don't know if she laughed because it was funny or because it was awkward. Either way, I had a good laugh. I mean, fuck. Did she have a baby? I mean. I have new information that I don't know if I can share with you. I mean, remember: FREE THE ANATOMY. From before? Abbie today. Now hold on. I don't know how to say this. Because it is not going to ever come out right. And it is like I am about to tell a racist joke or something and all the premise in the world won't make it un-racist. And I am okay with that. Much like saying "That being said." Or ASAP. I just want you to know that there is no such thing as ironic racism. Racism is racism. I am sorry, but 30 Rock has a very short shelf life. That flower has died on the vine and is now aging in barrels. I mean, maybe I am wrong. There does seem to be a new, "Let racism lie where it stands," movement in entertainment, but still, I mean, it isn't cancelling something when it already happened. Which, I understand. But, my god! I mean, all that is to say, I know this will not age well, and it is not something I should be talking about, but on the other hand, like an Agatha Christie novel or something Hercules Peroit would see, I mean, I saw what I saw, I don't know how else to say it. I don't know how to go about this mystery in these modern times. I mean, I am curious. I think, I mean, it will be a while because I have two or three projects to finish first, but I think I will start writing a mystery novel about an impossible detective that can't possibly believe what he is seeing due to Social Constructs. And he will, "He," because I am Straight, cis, male, and I can only write from my own perspective, and fuck you if you think that somehow straight, White, males need to somehow become the thing they cannot become, I mean, go back to "As Good As It Gets." The line when the woman goes up to the Jack Nicholson character and says "How do you write women so well?" And he says "Well, I think of a man, and remove all sense and accountability." And the woman is dumbfounded. I mean, as funny as that was, it is problematic on pretty much every level. And as much as I can appreciate a funny joke, I understand how it affects Society as a whole. I mean, I don't even know. I don't know what I am doing here. If it is bad or helpful. That, maybe I am just making things worse or allowing people like me to expand their minds just a little bit to maybe understand the toxic nature of male dominance in Society. And for that single thing I am apologizing because what I am about to say may be kind of a terrible thing and I want you to know that it comes from a place of love and not from a place of misogyny or the male gaze, even if it probably does, a thing I will own, that I know is part of what it means to be alive right now, that the body is something sacred and delicate and shouldn't be fetishized or forced into someone else's reality for the purpose of anything other than we are what we are, get over it. Hang your tits out on a clothes line. Drape your dick over a rock. Flap in the breeze until you get cold about it! Fucking hell! Just live!

I mean, whatever. The insanity of the body. It sucks. We are all sucking, together. I mean, I dated a girl in my early twenties that made me feel like shit because I didn't look like David. From the sculpture! The sculpture of David! I still deal with that body shame. I mean, how do you rebound from that? And at the time I was a dripping wet pair of Levi's wrapped around a tightly coiled dick. There was no moment in my life I would ever be more physically attractive. To this day I lament the fact that my golden years were destroyed by this abuse. I mean, she knew what she was doing. I knew it too. There was a reason that we didn't stay together. But still. People can be so cruel.

Butwhatever. I won't say it. The reason I know that Abbie had a baby. You can guess if you want. But it doesn't really matter. I mean, part of it is just having eyes, however, the other part is also living in Society. Which means that what I think is one thing is not reality. But still! Can't she just bring her baby to work one day?????

I want to trick her. Like by saying "Hey, Abbie, what the hell do you do all Winter? This job is insane. I didn't hear back from you until March or something." Then she will say "Oh, well, I mean, I did have a baby since last Summer. That was kind of nuts." And that will be that! My mystery will be solved and I won't be an asshole for eternity. I mean, the best part about being alive right now. For me. In Vermont. As a cis White male. Is that I bring nothing to the table. What is said is said. And even though I am very artistic and very non-Typical, I don't have to worry about it. The playing field has been leveled. And, I mean, if that means I have to try harder instead of just standing there with my arms crossed, looking over my dominion, I mean, the amount of artistic freedom that gives me. The amount of punk rock, I don't give a fuck because what the hell does everything, or anything matter. I mean, I understand that that is just as problematic as being an asshole, but what can you do? Sadly, things don't just return to nothing. There is no reset on Society. #metoo got close, but then the men bucked. And the racist right saw an opportunity. But at least some damage was done and some cracks in the façade appeared. I mean, we still have a lot of work to do. But as a very lazy man, that loves nothing more than to just make insular art, I will be just fine.

I mean, that is another thing. I am not gloating. I spent an entire day with this guy, the Putin of Gluten that is holding onto all of it as hard as he can. And I think he will be just fine. He is a good person. He thinks it is funny to man-splain. He does have a clue. Much like the rest of progressive Society, it is going to take some time. I mean, I am the worst myself. Growing up in Wyoming, I live like a walking Vesuvius victim. Shaking off dust. Trying to make sense of Pompeii. I mean, I hate my brain thoughts. They mean nothing to me. But they are there. Forever. For no reason! I love all my friends. But I see things in only one light. And it is troubling. I don't know if I will ever break free. And the worst part is, I don't care. I really don't care. I had a horrible upbringing. Not from my family or my kin, but from Society. This fucking Society that told me I was nothing, bullshit, because I didn't fit in. I mean, I dropped out of high school because of it. And here I am, 20 or so years later, and I can't even ask someone if they had a baby because I can barely connect with that person in the first place because I am male and they are female. I mean, it is insane! She had a baby! I know it! Damn it! Give me proof!

Anyway. I stopped on my way back to Shaw's to get gas. $71.07. For a full tank of gas. $71.07! I mean, I understand. Gas prices are connected to all the problems in the world. And that shit sucks. I mean, back in the beginning of the Plague oil was in the negative or whatever. They were paying you to fill up your tank. I mean, that is a joke, but still, I remember this. Gas was so cheap that they couldn't give it away. Remember that? People were doing the Midnight Run or whatever. Racing across the country. A Smokey on their tail. And that was that. Gas was down. But $71.07. I really hate Capitalism. Rich people get the good food. They get the good cars. And, shit, they don't even need them. The rest of us, sweating the pump? I want to punch those fuckers. Musk first. Whatever happened to that dick going to Mars. I mean, he said he would spend all of his billions on that. I mean. once again, and I said it before, right here, say what you will about Bezos, at least that fucker provides a service. Musk is just a Pyramid scheme on top of a Ponzi scheme that makes money a joke. Which, whatever, money is a joke. Nobody should have to worry about eating in this day and age. I mean, fuck. Hunger is just as much as a construct as billionaires. It is on purpose.

I mean, I need to get out of here. Before I fuck shit up. Once again Chris Brokaw will save me:

[Insert My Confidante]